


non amo te, sabidi

by heartsfilthylesson



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4077625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsfilthylesson/pseuds/heartsfilthylesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Bedelia seemed happy and one time she truly didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	non amo te, sabidi

**Author's Note:**

> based on the prompt: "i saw some bedelia gifs with the phrase "three times bedelia seemed happy (and one time she really didn't)" can you write something about it?""
> 
> no spoilers aside from what was shown in the teasers but definitely au after the s3 premiere.

i.

 “Dottore!” A young, dark haired man approaches them, a much-too-large grin stretching his flushed face. He shakes Hannibal’s hand before turning to Bedelia and kissing both her cheeks. He smells like sweat and alcohol and too much cologne. The scent clings to her nostrils even after he moves away.  “Signora.”

The _signora_ is a scalpel to her heart, poison poured into her bloodstream. Her education and work exchanged for a diamond ring as a promise of life rather than love. She reminds herself that she stopped being a doctor long before she became Mrs. Fell –blood on the white carpet, blood on her white shirt, blood everywhere– and pushes away something that could be regret.

She only half-listens to the animated conversation –the museum’s latest acquisitions, tonight’s gala, an old  _dottore_  she’s never met– distracted by the music, the wine and her thoughts. The man excuses himself with more kisses and promises to return quickly. She hopes he trips on his way back.

Hannibal gives her a questioning look but does not speak. He takes her wine glass and gives it to a passing waiter. “Per piacere,” he says, hand outstretched. She places her smaller hand in his and follows him.

It surprises her how graceful he is, how effortlessly they move together. She thinks they must look quite beautiful, all high cheekbones and designer clothes, nearly gliding across the marble floors. They see them as a beautiful couple because no one here can see the truth of him, the truth of them.

If they were different people, this would be happiness. But they are not Dr. and Mrs. Fell: they are Hannibal Lecter and Bedelia du Maurier, the cannibal and his psychiatrist.

She feels Hannibal’s upper trapezius contract as he takes a deep breath, his face hovering above hers as their dance comes to an end.

“Bellissima.” He touches the back of her neck, long fingers cold against her skin, and she remembers to smile.

“Grazie.”

ii.

While Hannibal spends the day appraising and cataloguing, she’s free to do as she wishes. Most days she reads and writes and thinks too much but some days she walks the streets of Florence.

Church bells follow her to Vera dal 1926, her heels clicking against the cobblestone.The sounds are almost soothing, the counterpoint a reminder she’s not some tattered princess locked away in Hannibal’s bloody tower. Here she’s both gaoler and prisoner.

She goes over the short shopping list in her head, still not fully confident in her Italian, and enters the store.

The words flow easily in her measured speech. Wine and white truffles. She watches the shopkeeper place the items in a bag and returns his polite smile.

The strange foods, the rare wines, the very scent of the place makes her think of Hannibal. She likes it here and wonders if that means she likes him too. She shelves the thought for another day and exits the shop.

iii.

They wear their roles well –the busy but devoted husband and the bored but agreeable housewife,– they’re the perfect hosts.

Their guests compliment the food and their home, they discuss jobs and education, the theatre and the opera. As more wine is poured, the conversation becomes more animated and the topics more personal, the volume higher. Hannibal seems at ease but she’s certain he finds them offensive, knows he’s sifting through recipes, Florentine and Szechuan and Alsatian.

“Dottore,” one of their newest acquaintances starts, his voice thickened by alcohol, his eyes travelling from her face to her neck to her cleavage, “you are very lucky.”

The corners of Hannibal’s lip quirk, more smirk than smile, and reaches for her hand. He kisses the heel of her palm, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist, over the tattoo she refuses to explain. He applies the slightest pressure before releasing her, a gesture that could mean everything or nothing. She lets out a breath and turns to their guest. “We both are.”

(She wonders if it’s luck keeping her alive, she wonders how long her luck will last.)

iv.

Bedelia has her rules and Hannibal is too polite not to follow them. She requests space and time alone, demands he doesn’t involve her in his diversions, that he remembers she’s here solely as spectator.

She breaks her most important rule with such speed it leaves her lightheaded. Tears blur her vision and she touches her cheek. She could claim self-defence –and her mind drifts to her last official patient, his blood slick between her fingers– but Bedelia has never liked lying to herself.

Regret and guilt mix with something she can’t name, something darker and foreign. She wishes she had time to catalogue her thoughts, to examine her feelings, but Hannibal’s voice cuts through.

“Are you, in this very moment, observing or participating?”

The word feels like broken glass in her mouth. “Observing.”

“You say you’re observing,” Hannibal says as he slips into his suit jacket, his voice clipped, “but this is participation, Bedelia.”

She looks at the man on the floor, more dead than alive, and thinks that Hannibal must be right.


End file.
